


Wilting

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse, Drabble, Guro, Other, Post-Apocalypse, waxing poetic about violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 08:51:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9877889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: He's dying, you know.





	

**Author's Note:**

> based a bit on Bioshock but not enough to count as fanfic

Sick, glassy eyes.  
He looks so far away from his physicality, miles underground, perhaps in the sky. Body absent, it shakes harder than leaves in a thunderstorm storm, chest shudders with every breath in, corpse-like still breathing out.  
Not that it makes much difference with his mind absent, too shy to speak more than a few words. Even when threatened, even when hurt he refused to plead. Admirable, really. In the end, though, quite stupid.  
Torn to pieces, figuratively and literally, right arm a sticky ragged nub, left hanging at a sickening angle, and conspicuously missing some fingers.  
Glassy eyes are patched with red, syrupy tears frame his face.  
So destroyed, so mindless.  
To call what is left human is an overstatement.  
His body is sunken to the floor, thighs in shreds while the rest of his leg is missing, absence highlighted by the blood splattered tile.  
He breathes as if injured prey, not yet dead. Sweet, for the meal pretend to live on, near childish naivety.  
Boyish charms, one could say. His charm was in his pain, flowers of contusion blooming on his lips, his neck.  
The brilliance of his bruises are dulled by shadow, cold, fluorescent light shining weakly.  
Injured prey limps slower, and slower, he breathes as if he is being watched, and so watches the world for glassy eyes to close.  
Scavengers murmur, scrape, smell the inevitability of a meal.  
The body heaves, the shudders replaced by numb stillness, hacking breathes in the relative silence.  
When his chest falls still, the desecrated body is shredded and consumed by the scavengers, not a mind among them to appreciate the artistry in that ragged body’s death.  
The mobbed things flee, once the last scraps of flesh disappear, the only evidence of his existence in the sticky, stained floor.  
A pity, it had to be that way, but must be done is done.


End file.
